I’m driving to Nebraska this weekend. For a cup of coffee. For some that might seem a bit excessive (depending on the coffee, I guess). But it’s not.

I was born in Nebraska and moved to Wisconsin when I was only twenty months old. I’ve lived here ever since. And yet, I still consider Nebraska home. My grandparents live in Nebraska, and so while I love the Huskers and love the city of Lincoln and love the wide open spaces, they are the real reason the state is so special to me. They are the reason I keep making pilgrimages back.

We’ve had great times over the years—watching the Huskers in Memorial Stadium and grabbing burgers at Don & Millie’s afterwards, or laughing at reruns of The Andy Griffith Show or All in the Family, or delivering newspapers before dawn or on cold afternoons (and sometimes having them thrown back at us), or playing rummy, or just sitting around a gourmet-quality dinner. (Even being attacked by geese at Holmes Park evokes a smile now.) Somewhere along the line, “coffee time” came into being. Late in the afternoon, we’d make a pot of coffee (or hot chocolate for those who didn’t imbibe) and sit down to drink, snack on donuts, and relax.

It’s not just about the coffee. Well, maybe for some of us it is. It’s about the conversations. It’s about the laughs. It’s about sitting around the kitchen table, while the afternoon light filters through the giant ash tree outside my grandparent’s window, just enjoying Grandpa and Grandma’s company.

As the years have passed, we’ve remained around the table—around meals and around coffee time—a little more. A post-breakfast coffee can linger into lunch, and afternoon coffee time bleeds into supper. We don’t necessarily “do” anything some days. We just are. As Archie Bunker would say, we enjoy some time “in the bosom of our family.”

It can be dangerous. A hot mouthful of coffee can come flying out of your mouth, spurt from your nose, or get swallowed in an accidental gulp when Grandpa cracks a funny or Grandma issues a clever retort. And if the extended family comes over, batten down the hatches. I’ve never laughed as hard as I do around my Nebraska family; I laugh more in a week with them than a year at home. There’s nothing I enjoy more than a good laugh with loved ones, which is why I’m driving nine hours to go have some coffee.

But that’s not the only reason. Life’s uncertain. I don’t know how many more trips I’ll get to make to Nebraska. Or anywhere, for that matter. I don’t know what the future will be for me and my loved ones. So I’m taking every opportunity. I’m making the most of every moment. I’m talking and laughing and enjoying every second of just being with my family.

Yes, I’m driving to Nebraska for a cup of coffee. And for so much more.

This Thursday marks the 13th anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Hard to believe it’s been that long already. Our country has changed a lot since then, but in other ways, it has stayed remarkably the same. Some of that is good, and some of that isn’t quite so good. Thirteen isn’t an anniversary that is typically celebrated, but then again, I’m not celebrating. And frankly, 2014 feels more to me like 2001 than any year since.

I didn’t lose any loved ones in the 9/11 attacks. I didn’t lose loved ones fighting in Iraq or Afghanistan. Many did. Their lives were forever changed by 9/11. But most of our lives weren’t. 9/11 is Pearl Harbor or the JFK assassination, a horrible moment in our nation’s history and little else. It’s some incredible images and a chance to ask “where were you when?” and a hassle when we go to the airport. Meanwhile our enemies are plotting the next attack and we’re busy playing fantasy football and voting for Dancing With the Stars contestants.

I’m not opposed to various forms of entertainment. In fact, one of the ways we have “defeated” terrorists is by not letting them take away our way of life. We refuse to live in fear. And rightly so. This isn’t Israel, where every “pregnant” woman might be hiding a bomb and where you have to wonder what’s in that guy’s backpack or under his coat. At least, not yet. And we have better security than you or I could possibly imagine. Our men and women in uniform—military, law enforcement, intelligence—are some of the bravest and best we have, and they do incredible work. I mean INCREDIBLE work. But they are not foolproof. They are not infallible. Because the terrorists do some pretty good work too. And they are persistent, willing to die for what they believe, and growing. Think we’re safe? Remember the Boston Marathon or the Fort Hood shooting? Are you sure all the illegal aliens streaming across our border are refugees? Have you seen how leaders of other countries defy our President? America is still a great nation, but to think we aren’t vulnerable to another attack, to think that “they wouldn’t dare” or aren’t capable, is foolish and dangerous.

So what do we do? I don’t want to live in terror, looking for a jihadist under every bush. I also don’t want—because of political policy, personal indifference, or forgetful ignorance—to go through another 9/11. I certainly hope that isn’t what’s required to wake us up. But more and more, I fear it might be.

I thought long and hard about this post, writing and rewriting, pondering what I wanted to say. And I concluded that I can’t say it much better than Darryl Worley already did. His song’s a decade old, and a few of the lyrics reflect that. But it is incredibly pertinent, perhaps more so as time has gone by.

What do we do? For starters, as the anniversary of 9/11 approaches, take a few minutes, listen to this song, and ask yourself if you’ve forgotten.http://bit.ly/haveyouforgotten

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I'm a thinker. For better or worse, my mind is always running. As a writer, I also love the method of communication. I think there's an artistry to it. This blog is my way of giving my constant thinking a place to express itself artistically.